


Wain Manner

by gardnerhill



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Community: watsons_woes, Crack, Gen, Inspired by Art, Muggle/Wizard Relations, Painting, Prompt Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-04
Updated: 2014-08-04
Packaged: 2018-02-11 16:21:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2074854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gardnerhill/pseuds/gardnerhill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft is a dick.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wain Manner

**Author's Note:**

> For the 2014 July Watson’s Woes Amnesty Prompt #5: **John Constable**. Take inspiration from one of his paintings (and link to the image, if possible); mention a particular artwork; or the man himself: somehow work him in to this entry.
> 
> Painting used is, of course, Constable’s [The Hay Wain](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Hay_Wain#mediaviewer/File:John_Constable_The_Hay_Wain.jpg).

It all happened very quickly.

One moment John was tagging behind Sherlock and Mycroft through the art gallery, bored out of his skull as the pair argued about security for the upcoming exhibition of duller-than-dishwater paintings – all the same pastoral scenes, as far as John was concerned, each one more bloody boring than the last. All right, John may have said that last part out loud, which was probably why Mycroft turned around to fix him with a dour eye and to twirl his umbrella.

The next moment a dog barked, ducks quacked, voices shouted, horses nickered, and John was outside. Not outside, on the pavement watching cars go past the museum, because that would make sense. No, he was standing in moist earth on a river bank near an old farm, watching two men in an empty wagon shout at the two horses towing the vehicle through the water. The weather was spring-cold, and the scudding clouds heavy with moisture threatened April rain. Except it was September. And he was in London. In an air-conditioned building with electronics and phones, and more Holmes brothers than was strictly necessary.

“Eyup! On, girl!” one man on the wagon called in an East Anglian accent. A family of quacking ducks paddled across the river.

John blinked. John pinched himself (yes it hurt). John turned around completely once. He was by himself, watching the men.

The dog barked again, now facing John. “Ey! Who’re you then!” a woman at the riverbank shouted, straightening from – oh God was she washing clothes?

John looked all around, this time only by moving his eyes. Erm. Wouldn’t most of this be paved and built-up if it was in the Essex or Suffolk area? And if it was farms, why weren’t the men on a tractor?

Oh my G–

He was in the museum again, and Sherlock and Mycroft were shouting. Business as usual. John blinked, pinched (yes it hurt), took a breath of air-conditioning. And looked at the last painting they’d just passed.

“–many times has the Ministry told you to stop doing things like that!” Sherlock shouted. “They’ll take that thing away from you.”

“Not your concern, little brother.” Mycroft rested his umbrella point downward, hand resting on the handle. “You know how I feel about hearing such things about one of the great English masters.”

John ignored the squabble behind him because oh, look. There, composed of oil paint and canvas: There was the dog who’d barked at him. There, the river, the fields and trees down to that one near the house all covered in fruit blossoms for spring, under the spring rain-clouds. The men on the wagon; the horses; the woman at the riverbank; even the line of ducks he’d heard quacking.

Eliminate the impossible, and John had just jumped into the fucking painting like Mary Bleeding Poppins. Except that was still impossible. Which left –

“Sherlock, Mycroft, stop fighting!” John snapped, whipping around; the brothers broke apart, startled into silence. “There’s a hallucinogen in the air conditioner! We’ve got to evacuate! Now!”

“No there isn’t, you actually were in the painting.” Sherlock didn’t even look at John. “For approximately eighty seconds.”

“Seventy-four seconds. How you exaggerate, Sherlock.” Mycroft did favour John with a look. “You are hardly the only short-tempered one here today, Dr. Watson. My fondness for Constable’s brilliant work means I have a very low threshold for hearing it mocked. My apologies for your temporary displacement.”

“Huhhh” John cleared his throat, took a breath. “How,” he asked precisely, “Did. You.”

Mycroft twirled his umbrella again – a gesture that took on an even more sinister tone than when John had first seen it merely as a villain’s affectation. “Not your concern, Doctor. But it will not be repeated.”

“I’m reporting this to Shacklebolt,” Sherlock snapped. “The Ministry gave you that thing, they can take it away from you, Muggle liaison or no.”

“Sherlock.” Mycroft fixed his brother with a glare. “He should be grateful we weren’t in the next room.”

Sherlock went white, and silent.

Which John understood when they walked through the doorway, surrounded by the works of Hieronymous Bosch.

They finished the inspection in silence. John said not a word.


End file.
